After riding a donkey for two days, Myran was more than happy to give his backside a break and walk alongside the other apprentices.
When they met up with the guests traveling from the Western Capital on the King's Road, Myran could not help noticing how impractical it all was. Traveling was meant to be efficient, finding the quickest way to get from one place to the other. But the lavish carriage, weighed down by all the fancy decorations on the outside and soft pillows on the inside, made Myran question how the rich ever managed to get anything done.
Not to mention the retinue of soldiers, personal maids, and servants who were traveling alongside these so-called esteemed guests.
"Are we meant to be escorting the Steward's daughters or the Steward himself?" One of his fellow apprentices asked. A few snickered and shook their heads at all that unnecessary display of wealth.
Not only did it slow them down, but it was also a shining beacon, screaming at bandits to come and rob them of everything they were worth. But Myran and the other apprentices and disciples who walked alongside the caravan, soon learned that one of the benefits of traveling in such a heavy cart meant they did not need to run to keep up.
He was munching on a piece of dried fruit when the fight started. Truthfully, he did not see who started the confusion, but soon the soldiers from the west and the guards from the east were at each other's throats.
Myran stared, somewhat shocked, that all those noble men and women had reduced themselves to no more than brawling children, kicking, screaming, and pulling each other's hairs. He heard insults being flung around such as 'filthy westerner', or 'easterner' scum.
"Should we intervene?" One of the apprentices asked to no one in particular.
"No," Senior Disciple Myrela said. "This fight does not concern us, our objective is to follow them and aid in their protection against outside threats, not from each other."
So they stayed a short distance away from the brawl and watched. Some apprentices snickered, and some disciples made silent bets on who would win the fight, the western soldiers in their light, sand-colored vests, or the easterners, in their heavy and gleaming armor. At first, it almost seemed like it would all end in a draw, but then someone pulled out a sword.
The apprentices and disciples prepared to intervene, but a heavy book flew from inside the carriage and hit the guard wielding the great sword squarely on his face with a loud thunk.
The guard stumbled back and his opponent took the advantage to punch him in the nose. Even through the shouts and curses, Myran heard the unmistakable sound of bone crunching.
"Enough! Stop this insanity before someone gets killed!" Someone shouted. Myran craned his neck and stood on the tip of his toes to see over the fray. A girl hung on the side of the carriage, a heavy book in her raised hand as if it were a weapon. "STOP!"
Her screech seemed to reach some of the westerners and they disengaged, standing with their backs to the carriage and their fists raised.
A second girl, this one older than the one who was still hanging on the side of the carriage, stuck her head out and chuckled. "Oh, let them brawl, sister. Brutes raised for battle sometimes need to get it out of their systems. A little bloodshed might do them some good."
The young girl glared at the older one. "If they kill each other and start a war right here on the King's Road you will not be afforded the privilege of meeting your future husband, dear sister."
The older girl's expression darkened and she scowled. She grabbed the book from the younger girl's hand and tossed it as far as she could. The younger girl let out a sound of protest, but the older one pulled her forcefully back into the carriage.
"If you brutes intend on killing each other, do so quietly," the older girl said, then shut all the curtains.
For some reason, the scene reminded Myran of being shackled and forcefully shoved into a box alongside people who were just as terrified as he was. If Perry had not been there, what would have become of Myran?
He liked to think he would have attempted some great escape, maybe even taking down one of the Crimson Lord's lackeys with him. But as soon as they threw him in that dark, damp cart, Myran had been too scared to think about anything other than dying alone, surrounded by strangers, without seeing his father one last time.
But Perry had been there, and Myran had helped him. And they had escaped.
In the days that followed, he had often thought of Perry. When he returned to the temple to check on his new friend, one of the disciples informed him that Master Rennin had graciously taken him back home. Myran had been sad and happy. He might never see Perry again, but at least he had gone back to where he belonged.
As the carriage started to move again, the soldiers and guards used it as a barrier: westerners on the left side, easterners on the right. Myran had been raised in the east, he respected the Royal Family and understood the role of the Steward. His father had made sure of that. Why did everyone else refuse to admit the simple truth that, westerner or easterner, none of that mattered? They were all the same people.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something on the ground and bent down to pick it up. It was the book the younger girl had thrown at the guard.
"Carrying that will only make you more tired," apprentice Kava said. "Just throw it away."
"I can carry it," Myran answered. And when he saw the second book the older girl had thrown away, he picked it up and carried it as well.
When they camped for the night, the easterners and the westerners divided themselves again, using the fancy carriage once more as a physical barrier. Myran and his other fellow apprentices and disciples joined neither of them, setting themselves apart from both.
"We should be with the Royal Guards, should we not?" Junior Disciple Rysel asked in a low voice.
Senior Disciple Myrela shook her head as she gently changed the bandages on Senior Disciple Saman's wound. Despite their pleas, the guards had not let him stay behind in the temple to recover.
"If we take sides we risk making things worse," she explained.
"Take sides? What other side is there to take? We are easterners." A Junior Disciple who was a couple of summers older than Myran said, glancing sullenly at the western soldiers sitting by their fire.
"We are apprentices and disciples of The Golden Light Temple, our loyalty is to peace and knowledge, not borders," she explained, her tone gentle but firm.
Pieces of conversations from both sides reached them, but Myran barely paid any attention. The light of their own fire wasn't bright enough to make out much of the book, but it was enough for him to read the titles. One seemed to be about plants and herbs native to the western coast, and the other seemed to be a diary of some sort.
"Why do you still have those?" The same apprentice who had told him to throw them away asked.
"I am going to return them," Myran answered. Was that not obvious?
The other boy widened his eyes. "Are you crazy? If you go over there, they will skewer you with their swords and roast you over their fire."
Myran chuckled. "You should stop listening to the fright tales your sister tells you whenever you visit."
The boy shook his head, his long, curly hair flying all over the place. "They are not fright tales, they are true, she swears by them." He shifted closer to Myran and lowered his voice. "She says that on her last trip down to the coast, she came across western soldiers who had caught a boy. He was about our age, she said. They butchered him and roasted him over a fire. Even stuck his head on a pike for good measure."
Myran's stomach turned at the description. Even though he did not believe the boy, he still eyed the western camp warily. Then he shook his head and got to his feet. "You are being silly. I am going to return the books and nothing will happen to me. Just watch."
He lowered himself next to Senior Disciple Myrela and showed her the books. "Would you give permission for me to return these?"
She eyed the books in his hands and smiled warmly at him. "Of course. But be careful and do not cause any undue trouble."
He nodded and bowed his head. Filled with determination, he rose to his feet and crossed their small camp toward where the westerners were gathered. But as he left the flickering light of their own campfire and found himself walking through the relative darkness between their camps, his courage started to slip away, bit by bit.
His steps slowed and he clutched the books tighter, holding them against his chest like a shield. He remembered walking alone in the dwindling light, his wooden training sword strapped to his side. Pride echoed in every step he took. He was returning to his temple, to pay respect to his Master before returning to visit his father. How could he not be proud?
He paid the approaching footsteps no mind. Even if he had chosen a secondary road, it was relatively busy. So the sound of booted feet and screeching wheels meant other people traveling the same road as he. Nothing more.
Then the world had gone dark as someone forced a black cloth bag over his head and his legs had been kicked out from under him. He had tried to reach for his wooden sword, but it was roughly snatched from between his fingers.
"This one small," a rough voice said. "We eat?"
Myran's entire body had frozen at those words. Eat? Who were these people?
"No, take to masters. They said take all to the red place." The second voice was even rougher than the first, more animal than man.
The red place. Eat. Myran's terrified brain understood who they were and where they wanted to take him. He knew he had to escape. If he did not, he would never see his father again, never eat his food or hear his words of wisdom.
"When a person is faced with something they cannot conquer or overcome, there are two responses," his father had said when he was younger. "We freeze and become like the icicles that hang from trees in winter, or we fight, and do not let them take what is ours."
"Is there no other response?" Myran had asked, eagerly drinking in all of his father's words.
"Some flee if they are able. But I have found that that is a poor substitute for the freedom of fighting." His father had smiled, his eyes crinkling, and ruffled Myran's hair.
That day, when the Crimson Lord's lackeys kidnapped him, Myran discovered he was a fragile and useless icicle.
"Who goes there?" A masculine voice called out and Myran's feet stopped dead in their tracks.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his tongue refused to cooperate. His fingers seemed to have become permanently stuck in a curved shape, holding the books almost painfully tight against his chest.
He felt himself being shackled and dragged away. Helpless and small. Myran had never felt so small. The western soldier who stood and walked toward him became a towering beast that meshed with the dark all around them. Each of his steps thudded up Myran's own feet-
"My books," a low, feminine voice said. "Thank you for rescuing them."
Myran blinked and the young girl, the one who had hung herself outside the carriage and thrown the book at one of the guards, stood behind the western soldier, smiling politely at Myran.
Myran glanced down at what he was carrying. "Y-Yes. I found them."
"And now you think you can just walk off with her books, boy?" The soldier asked. Myran raised his gaze and saw him tighten his grip on his sword.
"Of course he is not. He is clearly here to return them," the younger girl said. "Otherwise, there would be no need for him to walk up, alone and unarmed, to our camp, would there?"
"He could be a decoy, milady. Or worse, an assassin," the soldier reasoned.
Myran shook his head. "I would never. I am an apprentice of The Golden Light Temple, we learn and value the righteous ways of the world. I would never assassinate anyone."
"There, see. No need for all this concern." The girl smiled but sounded nervous. She glanced to the side and when Myran followed her gaze, he understood why.
Some of the guards closer to them had stopped talking and had their attention trained on what was happening. A few, Myran noticed, also gripped their swords tightly.
If another fight broke out because of his clumsiness, not only would he be responsible for all their lives being put at risk, but Master Rennin would punish him severely when he returned. He might even kick him out of the temple.
With slow and careful moves, Myran knelt and bowed his head. "Milady, please forgive my forwardness. I merely wish to return your property."
Myran relaxed his arms enough to lower the books but just as he was about to set them down on the ground, a high-pitched screech tore through the night.
Myran stumbled back in time to see a great column of fire erupt from the dark trees behind them.
"Form a line! Protect the princesses!"
Other orders were shouted, but Myran could not move. He sat, paralyzed, as an enormous shadow jumped out from between the trees, large enough to blot out the moon.